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The Heiress of Newfield
Excerpt From A Novel By
Tina Appleton Bishop
Chapter One
Grieving
On a chilly, dismal day in October of 1968, the Eliot sisters stood trembling on the altar steps of the First Lutheran Church in Newfield, Connecticut. It was the saddest, most wretched day of their young lives: the memorial service for their father, Alfred Eliot, Jr., dead at 40 of a tragic fall in their landmark house, Eliot Farm.
Alberta and Fredrika (a composite of their father’s name) or “Al” and “Freddie” as they inevitably would be called, were as unlike as any two girls could be. Freddie, at 18, had the red hair and the tall, awkward build of her father. Al, a blonde, already had, at 15, the signs of a voluptuous shape like her late mother, Mary Jane. Nevertheless, they were known to all as “The Boys.”
Standing in similar – and equally unbecoming – black dresses, the girls tried, with shaking hands, to read excerpts from the service. It was as difficult for them to struggle through it as it was to watch them. Luckily, the ceremony was short, and the eulogies, too. After all, what can one say about a man who lived a dull, uneventful life, except that last, dramatic end? “He was kind, gentle and lovable” – and clumsy.
Tensely watching the two sisters, a stout, round faced, gray-haired woman sat alone in the front pew. Gretchen Downs had been a vital part of the Eliots’ life ever since the death of Mary Jane, of a heart attack, 12 years ago. Soon after, she had been hired to take care of the house and the two little girls. They adored her. Alfred had never remarried. He didn’t need to – he had Gretchen.
“You have a real jewel there in Gretchen,” the neighbors told Alfred.
He agreed. She was, at 43, fifteen years older than he, and as uninterested in remarriage as he was. With Gretchen he felt safe, and under her watch the big Victorian house had never looked better. The three Eliots thrived. Her cooking skill was legendary, her pies and cakes featured at all of the Lutheran church suppers.
Mary Jane had been a gifted cook, too, and a remarkable silver polisher, floor waxer and window cleaner, but Gretchen surpassed her.
Alfred appreciated his good fortune. Gretchen’s housekeeping, especially the high shine on the parquet floor of the front parlor – a room that was rarely used – always dazzled visitors to the house. The family preferred the former dining room next to it, which had been made into a cozy sitting room. Its floor was covered with a faded old braided rug, handmade by a past generation. The furnishings were comfortably shabby, except for a handsome, beautifully polished, drop-leaf dining table, which was used for occasional guests. In contrast to the formidable fieldstone fireplace in the front room, there was a cozy Franklin stove in one corner. Much as they loved that room, the girls preferred the huge, yellow-painted kitchen, where they would sit and watch Gretchen as she worked.
Originally, she had been hired as an “accommodator,” a quaint word once used to describe ladies who were not servants (God forbid that you should consider them that!), but well-educated, capable women who were available for certain duties around the house. In the period after Mary Jane’s death Gretchen worked a full day, and once in a while, until late at night. Then, a few weeks later, both Gretchen and Alfred decided that neither of them were gossip fodder, so she moved into the fifth bedroom, which was located on the top floor, next to the attic. The room was not large, but spacious enough for her big brass bed, her sturdy oak furniture, her precious old cuckoo clock and her collection of Bavarian china.
Much as he loved his children, it was a relief to him to have an occasional night out for dinner with neighbors or an evening at the movies. As the years passed, Alfred at forty remained a sought-after bachelor. His dark red hair had thinned a bit and his gait was as awkward as ever, but he had a sort of bashful charm that made him popular in the neighborhood. He was the poor woman’s Gary Cooper, gawky but sweet. Dancing with him was a joke, however. Even he laughed at his clumsiness.
But who could have guessed that that very clumsiness would cost him his life?
After his memorial service Gretchen had sobbed, “It was my fault. I was much too proud about the high polish on that floor.”
It seemed that Alfred had ordered some nice presents from Tiffany for the girls and was expecting a delivery. When he looked out of his bedroom window one morning and spotted the United Parcel truck, he quickly raced downstairs in order to intercept the packages before Alberta and Fredrika saw them. In his haste he somehow managed to slip on the glossy surface of the parquet floor, his feet shot out from under, and he came crashing down, hitting his head on the corner of a table. Hours later he was dead.
In the turmoil following the accident the two small packages had been mislaid, and it was only two weeks later, just before the service, that the blue boxes from Tiffany were opened. The girls, who had been traumatized into an almost uncanny stoicism, suddenly broke down when they saw the necklace of cultured pearls for Fredrika and small gold and pearl bracelet for her sister. How ironic that Alfred’s lovingly chosen presents would be debuted at his own memorial?
Cruelly, at the reception in the house following the service, many guests exchanged stories about Alfred’s fabled awkwardness and bad luck. “Hand him a hammer and he’d smash his thumb” or “Remember the day when he tried to fix his car and it rolled back on him and wrecked his foot? Kept him out of the service, too.” Another recalled how, on his honeymoon, Alfred hiccupped for three days, non-stop.
The girls looked on with shock as they saw people, most of them men, laughing and joking together. Is this the way to behave when your good friend’s dead? They clung together, hoping that their beloved Aunt Gretchen would leave the kitchen to comfort them. Heart-broken and grim-faced, she had thinned down in the weeks following Alfred’s death, but preparing for the large reception had given her a strange élan. In the first days after the accident she had been glad to receive the many food offerings from the women of her church, and when it came to planning the menu for the feast at the big event, she turned down a caterer’s offer. This was her finest hour. She ruled like a dictator in her kitchen, tyrannizing the crew of Lutheran ladies who attempted to help her.
“Place the hams and the turkeys where the guests can get at them. Careful with that pan of scalloped potatoes. Don’t fill the salad bowls too full. Hold off on the pies and cakes until the end,” she snapped at them as they ran back and forth from the kitchen.
Two long tables for the food and drinks and a number of uncomfortable little folding chairs had been rented from the funeral parlor. Most of the guests ignored the chairs and stood around in small groups, awkwardly balancing their plates and glasses as they chatted. The teenage friends of the girls gathered around the food, filling their mouths, as if to avoid saying the wrong words.
Once in a while Gretchen would join the guests, her arms around both girls. She did not linger long and suspected rightly that her name was often mentioned in the chitchat around the room. Naturally, there was much talk about Alfred’s will, which had been recently published in the Newfield Bee: daughters Fredrika and Alberta to receive five-hundred-thousand dollars each, plus the house and the remainder of the estate. As the girls were minors, the family lawyer, Donald Bailey, was appointed legal guardian until they came of age. A lifetime trust had been set up for “my good friend, Gretchen Downs, for her devotion in the care of my children and the house.” If Gretchen had been younger and slimmer there might have been malicious comment. All agreed that she deserved it. At Gretchen’s death the trust would be dissolved, each daughter receiving half of what remained.
Alfred may have been clumsy at most things, but he was graceful at making money. And generous in bestowing it.
The teenaged heiresses wandered about the room, dazed and uncomfortable as neighbors and distant relatives crushed them with hugs and sentimentality. Fredrika, in particular, seemed to shrink from the excessive emotion. Like her father, she was not demonstrative, but could never be termed cold. She had her father’s coloring, too. Her blonde sister had an easier way with people. She was smaller, and better coordinated, a top athlete at school. Al was everyone’s favorite.
Many years ago, when the children were up in Gretchen’s room, nestled in her bed, they had asked to call her “Aunt Gretchen” instead of “Mrs. Downs” as their father had called her. They had real aunts, but they were far away in places with silly names like Oshkosh.
A few of those “real” aunts were present at the reception. Some were annoyed by the girls’ lack of interest in them. One of them, Aunt Lucille, had returned to Oshkosh, deeply offended.
“Really, I don’t know what to make of those girls. I even offered to have them live with me, even pay for their education. They weren’t even grateful.” She sniffed. “Said they’d be happy staying home with ‘Aunt Gretchen.’ Why, that woman was only a housekeeper! But she sure got her hooks on my poor brother. They say she’s set for life. ‘Aunt Gretchen’ indeed!”
When Gretchen would emerge from the kitchen from time to time, the girls would run to her for refuge, clinging to her, in tears.
“Well, I’m glad to see some emotion,” Cousin Lillian said, as she helped herself to another slice of Gretchen’s lemon chiffon pie.
Gretchen comforted them. “Go ahead and cry, darlings. This will be the hardest day of your lives, but in a few hours, when all the food and drink is gone, they’ll go away, and we’ll go up to my room and take care of each other.”
Chapter Two
Jealousy
Ten years had passed since their father’s death. The Eliot girls had changed from teenagers into poised young women. Fredrika had grown even taller and had lost much of the awkwardness of her youth. Her posture had improved, and though she no longer slouched to hide her full figure, never would she be mistaken for a model.
Her sister, now known to all as “Al,” remained petite, but her personality had greatly expanded. She and her sister had the same wavy hair and small nose of their mother, but Al had a sensual quality that was magnetic. Without question, the local boys rated her a ten. In college she had been a cheerleader and one of the most popular girls on the campus.
Strangely enough, Freddie did not appear jealous of her sister. Half jokingly, she told a friend, “I’m smarter than she is.” Actually, she secretly scorned Al’s bubbly enthusiasm, and feared that her sister’s naïveté might get her into trouble. Freddie was intelligent enough to be aware that her money raised her to a higher level of notice among men. Consequently, she was wary of the local bachelors in the town. Once in a while after receiving special attention from one of them, she would study herself in a full-length mirror. She was not a beauty, she decided, “but not bad, really.” Taking an inventory of her assets, she rated her complexion “good, but slightly freckled,” eyes and hair above average (though her brows were too thick, like her father’s), legs long and well shaped. She rated herself a seven-plus.
Matthew Swenson, who dated her from time to time, would have scored her an eight. He was a thirty-year-old blond bachelor, tall enough at six-three not to be intimated by her height and as the only son of a successful furniture manufacturer, he was not impressed by the Eliot girls’ reputed wealth.
One Saturday afternoon in late October, when he was at loose ends, he called Fredrika. As an old friend, he knew that she was not the touchy type and wouldn’t be offended by a last-minute invitation.
“Freddie, this is Matt. I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m sitting here, bored out of my skull, and I wondered how you’d feel about dinner and a movie tonight. You’re probably all signed up for the evening, but I just took a chance that you might be free.”
“Free as a bird!” she laughed. And lonely, too, as Gretchen was away for two days visiting a cousin. She was not used to being alone, and the big empty rooms of the old house depressed her. Matt was not the most exciting man in town – not bad looking, a bit heavy, and showing signs of balding – but this was no time to be fussy, she thought as she put down the phone.
What should she wear? she mused. The new silk print? No, that would make her look too needy, too grateful for a date. Perhaps the old navy blue dress would be more suitable, she thought as she laid it on her bed. It had been expensive, but it had served her well for three years. She had always had a good time in it. Matt was not the kind to notice what she wore. One didn’t dress for men’s opinions anyway. It was the approval of her friends that counted, though she knew that most of them had given up after years of trying to make her stylish.
The doorbell rang as she was making a final check in the mirror. A hot shower had given a becoming flush to her face, and her hair looked better than usual. The old dress still clung in the right places. Not bad for such short notice, she thought, as she smoothed her hair with both hands.
Evidently Matt had also given some thought to his appearance. His glen plaid sports jacket was freshly pressed and his white Brooks Brothers button-down shirt and conservative tie made him look “Ivy League,” which he was not.
“The place looks great,” he said as he entered the former front parlor. “It now looks like a living room, not a dying room.” It was he and a decorator who had transformed the dreary Victorian room into a cheerful, welcoming place.
Freddie was not ready to give him all the credit for the changes. “I don’t know if it was too smart getting rid of the old Victorian pieces. They say that stuff is going to get more and more valuable.”
“Who is they?” he retorted. “What do they know? Admit it, that furniture was ugly, uncomfortable and musty smelling. Who needs that?”
His words hurt her, but she tried not to show it. “Well, you did give us a wonderful price on the furniture from your place. Maybe that makes up for the beating we took on the old pieces.”
Matt went up to Freddie and gave her a hug. “Darn it, Freddie, you have memory like an elephant. You have a beautiful new room now. Enjoy it!”
For most of its existence the front room of the Eliot house had served as a virtual undertaker’s annex, its ancient doors wide enough for a coffin to pass through. In fact, generations of Eliot coffins had been carried through and laid on trestles in the center of the big room, there to be admired or wept over. Alfred’s cremation had changed all of that, and Gretchen’s memorial feast was spread out where the “remains” had once been displayed.
Since that day the sepulchral look of the place had been completely transformed. The dreary, cigar-smoke-stained wallpaper had been stripped and the walls painted a soft rose. White, delicately embroidered curtains took the place of the heavy, mustard-colored draperies. In carefully planned conversational sections various sofas and easy chairs were placed around the high-ceilinged room. A very large sectional couch and a pair of wing chairs were the room’s focus in front of the massive fireplace.
The only remnant of cigar’s glory days, when the Eliots made a handsome living farming long-leafed tobacco, was a highly polished antique brass spittoon. Placed in the center of the bay window, it now served as a container for a spectacular fern. Alberta had planted it as a tiny shoot years ago, and it had grown to astonishing size, its greenery lending an exotic atmosphere to the room.
“My God, that thing will bust through the ceiling if you don’t watch it. What made it so gigantic? Remnants of all that ancient spittle?” said Matt, laughing.
As usual, Freddie was entertained by Matt’s sense of humor. She had known him for years and had always felt a sisterly affection for him. Once or twice he had tried a tentative pass at her, but she felt safe with Matt, and was looking forward to a pleasant, uncomplicated evening with him.
Still admiring the plant, Matt added, “Perhaps you should place a rattan chair under it, give the room a really tropical air. You say your sister planted it? How amazing! By the way, I haven’t heard you mention her in some time. Is she still in Ohio?”
“As far as I know,” she answered coldly.
Matt immediately regretted that he had brought up the subject. Five years ago Alberta had eloped with George Waters, a handsome young man who had been a beau of her sister. At the time Freddie had tried to hide her humiliation and her fury at her sister, as the whole town had noticed her infatuation with George. From the day she met him she adored him. There was a shyness about him, an appealing diffidence, which reminded her of her father. He was kind and considerate and had blue eyes to die for. Freddie was so bedazzled that she all but stalked him as he walked about town. She dreamed obsessively about him, secretly bought bridal magazines, and was determined to marry him.
George was no fool, and was quite aware of the effect he was having on her, but simply laughed when friends warned him, “Watch out for Freddie Eliot. She’s gone bananas over you, and she’s a girl who usually gets what she wants.”
Being of a warm and affectionate nature, he did nothing to cool her ardor. Her caresses and eager kisses were returned, though Freddie failed to notice that his were more polite than romantic. George was not unkind and did not mean to encourage the young woman, but as everyone said, “He’s a nice guy, but not too bright.”
Unfortunately for Freddie, who had been living in a dream of matrimonial joy, Alberta appeared on the scene. She had been traveling for several months. When she and George met, poor Freddie’s chances were shipwrecked. The electricity between George and Alberta crackled with such fire that people who watched them together felt like voyeurs at an erotic film. Their subsequent elopement to Ohio, a few weeks later, did not surprise anyone, not even Freddie. She had been beaten by a primal force and knew it. Humiliation made her leave town for a while as she visited a college friend in Florida.
On her return people tried to act naturally with her, but it was obvious that they were running out of tact. Only Matt had the courage to say what others were thinking: “What a lousy trick to pull on your own sister.”
To his surprise, she replied defensively, “She couldn’t help herself. I can’t blame her – or him, for that matter.”
“You’re amazing! You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Matt, I really do. But I doubt if I’ll ever see or hear from them again.” With that, she buried her head on Matt’s shoulder and cried her eyes out.
He had been a staunch friend to her from that time and over the years they had enjoyed each other’s company, though no man had since excited her in the way that George had.
She did make an effort to see others, and Gretchen constantly nagged her, “Give some little dinner parties. Invite a few congenial friends. I’d love to cook you a special meal.”
She had found that entertaining was easier at home than going out. Every time she was seen in a restaurant with a new man the local gossip would start, as he would be carefully assessed and ultimately rated as inappropriate as a suitor of Fredrika Eliot, the town’s most eligible single woman. Simon Hart, a longhaired writer; Norm Peters, a baby-faced banker; and Gerald Blakemore, a slightly effeminate interior designer – all failed their tests. Matthew Swenson might have received an endorsement, but he was old news.
His call and last minute invitation had come at a critical time for Freddie, the fifth anniversary of Al and George’s runaway to Ohio. The date had been stamped on her memory: October 19, 1973. Al had been only 20 then, Freddie mused. Too young to have known what she was doing. Perhaps it was time to forgive and forget. At least to forget. Five years of hatred, she told herself, was five years too long. Suddenly she felt a sense of release, as if a large rock had been lifted off her back. It was time to shed all the anger that had been eroding her for so long.
A lightness had come over her as she thought of her date with Matt and set two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, Matt’s favorite, on the coffee table. She was determined to have a good time.
“No coke for you?” he asked as he sat down on the couch. For the past five years Freddie had not smoked or taken a drink.
She smiled. “I think it’s about time for me to step out into the world again. Let’s relax, and have a good time tonight.”
A good time? What could that mean? He glanced at his old friend. She was looking a bit different, had a special glow that he hadn’t seen in years. Had she finally shaken off the insecurities that had plagued her for so long? There was a new confidence about her. She looked different. She smelled different. Was she using a new scent, or was it simply his imagination, he wondered, as he made himself a drink.
Freddie shuddered at first as she began to sip her whiskey. Then she took a swallow, and then another. This was pleasant. It had been years since she had felt that kind of warmth seeping through her body.
“Sorry I don’t have even a potato chip to go with this.”
“Forget it. I’ve made a dinner reservation for seven-thirty. The movie goes on at nine fifteen.” He checked his watch. “I guess we’d better shove off.”
Chapter Three
Regret
Caruso’s was not a particularly attractive restaurant, nor was it noted for its food, but for some mysterious reason it was the most popular place in Newfield, a town whose population now passed 20,000. With its standard red-checked tablecloths and well-worn burgundy leather booths, it had a lived-in look. Even its waiters – most of them veterans of many years – had that look. People felt comfortable there, generations of them. An upscale French place had had but a short life in Newfield. All that nouvelle cuisine didn’t sit well with a farm community. That restaurant had moved to Hartford, where it flourished.
As usual, Caruso’s had its regular Saturday night crowd – young and old couples, singles packed around the bar, and in a back room, two or three family groups were noisily celebrating a birthday or wedding anniversary.
At Caruso’s Matt never had to look at a menu. “That’ll be a Jack Daniel’s, a side of spaghetti and the veal Marsala for you. And what for the lady?” the waiter asked. He looked over at Freddie. She seemed more relaxed than usual, less stiff, he thought. Freddie was not one of his favorites.
She was slow to answer. Already she was starting to feel somewhat light-headed. “That drink at my place was pretty strong. I guess I was out of practice. Maybe a glass of white wine? You choose. The veal sounds perfect, but no spaghetti. Meanwhile, I think I’d better zip off to the powder room.” She hurried out, pushing her way through the crowd.
Her face felt flushed and she needed to splash some water on it. It was ridiculous to feel this way, she told herself, after only one drink. Or was it only one? As she returned to the table she tried to remember. She picked up her glass, which was of generous size, and filled to the top. After two long swallows she felt more in control.
“What am I drinking? It tastes really good. You say it’s Chablis?”
She did not object when the waiter deftly refilled her glass a few minutes later. The wine had made her calmer, less intense. Matt, too, seemed to be acting more relaxed as they slowly enjoyed their dinner.
He leaned closer to her across the table.
“Freddie and Al. I’ve always wondered how you two got such boyish names. Isn’t that what they called you at school, ‘The Boys’?”
She made a grimace before answering. “I’ve gotten used to it now, but it wasn’t easy. Dad was dead set on having a son named Alfred. And our names, Alberta and Fredrika, were as close as he could get. Pretty tacky, I guess, but I’m stuck with it.”
“Yet he never tried to bring you up as boys,” he laughed. “You and Al are definitely feminine. No question about that, and very attractive, too, honey.” He moved his face closer to hers.
Quickly, she picked up the desert menu and hid behind it. “Do we have time for something before the movie?” she asked. It had been years since she had heard her sister discussed. Feminine surely described Al, she thought. The woman exuded waves of sensuality whenever she walked into a room. It was a relief to her when the subject was changed as Matt paid the bill and they set off for the movie house.
She had hoped to see Saturday Night Fever, an R-rated film, which had played to record crowds. It would mean a long drive to Hartford, so both decided to see the old Charles Boyer and Ingrid Bergman murder mystery, Gaslight, which was the latest in the series of movie classics that the local theater showed once a month. The feature had already started by the time they arrived, so they had to grope around in the dark before they found two seats off to one side. Freddie kept on her lightweight coat. Past experience with certain men had proved that it was a wise move, and Matt, for some reason, had seemed less brotherly than usual. Or had she imagined it? The unaccustomed drinks had made her feel uncertain, but she was still sober enough to be wary. She felt more secure inside her coat, and she did not move away when Matt put an arm around her shoulder.
Charles Boyer had always been her favorite actor. With his velvet eyes and sultry French accent alone, he could heat up the screen. In Boyer movies there was no heavy breathing, no writhing bodies. Those eyes and that voice did it all. She particularly remembered one seduction scene some years ago, when his hands had glided down the silken back of a woman’s dress, and slowly, oh so slowly, pulled down the zipper, all the while caressing her with his voice. Fade out. One’s imagination filled in the rest.
But, with Gaslight, it was the plot – with its intricate and carefully woven psychological aspects – that attracted her attention even more than Boyer’s looks and smooth manner. She thought the murderer had indeed crafted the perfect crime. But even Charles Boyer couldn’t get away with murder!
As they walked, arm in arm, out of the theater Matt said, “I never could see why so many women went gaga over Boyer. To me, he’s too soft. Look at those eyes, and those lashes. Almost feminine. Now take Gable. There’s a real man.”
“Yes, I’ll take him too,” laughed Freddie as Matt helped her into his car. “There’s not much suspense with Gable, though. He’s all action. His eyes twinkle, they don’t smolder.”
“What about your eyes? Would you call them twinklers or smolderers?” Matt asked as he took her face between his hands.
She was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable.
“Let’s settle for friendly.”
Matt paused before starting the motor. “What do you say we go to Rafters for a while, dance a little, and have some drinks?”
“Drinks? I don’t know . . . but I haven’t danced for ages. It might be fun.”
“It’s always fun at Rafters. Never been to Rafters? I’m surprised,” he said, though he wasn’t surprised at all.
In high school Freddie used to hear about Rafters. It was not a place for nice girls, Gretchen had told her. The “fast crowd” went there to drink, dance and “behave like sluts.” Well, Gretchen was away for a few days, she mused, so she needn’t worry about confronting her.
“I’m a big girl now, and I think it’s about time for me to go to Rafters. Part of my education,” she laughed. Suddenly she felt more relaxed.
Neither spoke much on the six-mile drive. When they arrived at Rafters there was the usual Saturday night jam in the parking lot, but Matt managed to shoehorn his car into a space. As she watched his skillful maneuvers Freddie recalled her father’s frustrations at the wheel.
“My dad would have taken all night to squeeze into that spot.”
“Let’s face it, Honey, your father was a sweetheart, but coordination wasn’t his thing,” said Matt. “But he was pretty skillful in other ways.” As he spoke he was thinking that Alfred Eliot may have seemed clumsy and naïve, but nobody could beat him when it came to making money. He wondered if either of the Eliot girls had any idea how rich they were.
Freddie did not have her sister’s looks and sex appeal, but she was certainly attractive. Strange that she had never married. Tonight, he thought, she looked more interesting than usual. He noticed a new relaxation, a new aura about her. Could it be the drinks that had removed some of the tension and reserve of her personality, made her seem more approachable? Perhaps Rafter’s atmosphere would unleash some of her hang-ups. He’d seen it work with other girls.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked as he led her to a table. “Looks like an old English tavern, with those dark timbers, doesn’t it?”
Hardly, she thought. The pseudo-Tudor décor did not impress her. The place was far too crowded and smoky, but everybody seemed to be having a good time, and she determined to enjoy herself.
“Want to sample a different drink?” he said as he ordered two Planter’s Punches. “It was popular a few years ago, but as a summer drink. It’s mostly rum and fruit juice. I think you’ll like it.”
He watched her as she took her first sip from a straw. “Goes down easy, doesn’t it?”
Indeed it does, she thought, as she finished one tall glass and started a second. Between drinks they danced. Freddie was happy to feel less clumsy than usual, and avoided stepping on Matt’s feet. A sense of euphoria was creeping over her, a glow that made the room seem more attractive, less smoky. The dancers around her smiled at her more often, made her feel more welcome in their company. Some inner glow gave her the confidence to step out on the dance floor alone, her third Planter’s Punch in one hand. She was very, very drunk – and didn’t know it.
When she woke up two hours later she was lying on a bed in a small, musty room, with no memory of having stumbled up the stairs. The room was cast in semi-darkness. She was not alone. As her head cleared and her eyes began to focus, she noticed a figure on the bed beside her. It was Matt, and he was snoring. She dimly remembered his last words to her, “Drink up, girl, it’s good for you.”
Gradually her vision improved and she noticed that she was lying on the bed, not in it. She also saw that her new red pumps were lying on the floor, her stockings lay a few feet away. My God! What had she done! At 28, Fredrika Eliot was still a virgin, or so she hoped. Her upper body felt sore, her lips were swollen and there was a rip at the neck of her dress. Her legs and lower thighs were exposed. The skirt of her dress had been bunched around her waist. Gingerly, she ran her hands down the rest of her body and suddenly felt her panty girdle. Praise be, it was still intact! Never had she felt such a relief. A friend had once referred to her panty girdle as “my chastity belt!”
She looked over at Matt curled in a fetal position beside her. His shoes and trousers had been tossed on the floor. From the waist up he was totally dressed – the Glen plaid jacket, button-down shirt, even his tie, were in place. In any other situation she would have burst out laughing as she saw his boxer shorts. They were of white silk, patterned with red and green circles that read “Stop!” and “Go!”
Even though it seemed as if “nothing had happened,” she hurried to leave the room before Matt woke up. At a small basin and mirror in the back of the room she washed her face and hands and ran her pocket comb through her hair before tiptoeing down the stairs, her pumps in her hands.
Tom Langan, owner of Rafters, was busy cleaning up the bar when he saw the puffy-eyed, disheveled young woman approaching him. He often witnessed such scenes, but this woman looked more mature than his usual customers. There was a weariness about her, or was it shock, as she weaved towards him, carrying a pair of shoes.
Whatever happened up there, it wasn’t fun, he thought, as he saw the tear in her dress. “Are you O.K., Miss?” he asked as he continued wiping a cloth over the bar top. Keep calm, he told himself.
“Not exactly. I have to find some way to get home.” She tried hard to keep her voice from shaking as she sat on a chair and with trembling hands, attempted to slip on her pumps.
“Here, let me help you.” He knelt down. “Do you need a doctor?” (Please, God, don’t get the police into this.) “You look pretty bad. What went on up there?”
None of your damned business, she thought. “No, I don’t need a doctor, just someone to drive me to Newfield. It’s about six miles.”
“I can find you a driver, but at this hour it’ll cost some bucks.”
She thankfully remembered the “mad money” that Gretchen had always urged her to carry. “Would twenty dollars be enough?”
Easy money for his pal, Jake, who had helped in such situations before. “My friend John Burns runs a taxi service. He can be over in five minutes. He looked sharply at her. “You look as if you could use a drink.”
“Heavens, no! But thanks.”
They waited in silence until they heard the sound of the taxi. Tom helped her into the car. What a relief to have her leave his place. He listened as Freddie told the driver, “Eliot Farm. It’s about six miles away, just outside of Newfield.”
She sat in the backseat, glad to be alone in the darkness of the cab. The two of them kept a tactful silence as they traveled east through backcountry roads. It was almost five-thirty. The light was beginning to change from gray to rose as the rising sun could be glimpsed through the tall pines. Freddie closed her eyes and tried to shut out both past and present.
To Burns at the wheel, the words “Eliot Farm” had a familiar sound. The Eliots, he recalled, were once rich tobacco growers in the Connecticut Valley. Maybe this strange woman in the back seat was an Eliot. Maybe she could pay a lot more than twenty bucks for the short ride home. Maybe he should take the longer route?
Suddenly from behind him, he heard from his passenger, a sort of choking sound. Was she sobbing, or was she laughing? Better not ask. He’d seen women in this condition before. Better take the short way. He tried to hear what she was saying. Something about a panty girdle?
Hysterical women were not his favorite passengers. He drove as fast as he could, took the twenty dollars, and supported her as she shakily climbed the porch steps.
******
Hours later, Matt woke up as the sun was beginning to filter through the shuttered windows. He was alone in the dingy, narrow room. It was very quiet, save for the chirping of birds as they stirred in the tree outside. There was no sign of Freddie, only the mark of her body on the bedspread. My God! What had happened, he thought as he painfully raised himself to a sitting position on the bed. Planter’s Punch indeed. That drink packed a wallop, not a punch. The sight of his bare thighs in their ridiculous shorts gave him a shock. Obviously he must have tried something with his old friend Freddie, the girl who had always been like a sister to him. The untouchable. What an idiot he had been to put her in such a situation. Cruel, too.
It did not take long for him to pull on his trousers, slap some water on his face and walk downstairs to pay his bill. As he thought about Freddie a cold sweat came over him. He felt nauseated, and his head pounded. He had done a lot of stupid things in his life, but this one topped them all.
“Your girl friend sneaked out on you? She looked a mess. What the Hell were you doing up there?” asked the owner sardonically. “Lucky for you she didn’t call the police.”
Matt was too shaken to reply.
“And lucky I got Jake to drive her home,” Tom Langan continued. “In the future find another place to take your dates. I don’t need your kind of trouble,” he snarled.
On his arrival home he went straight to bed. Later he called his office and reported sick. For three days he was afraid to go out, fearful of running into Freddie. Finally he took a deep breath and dialed her number.
“Freddie, this is Matt.”
“Yes, I recognized the voice.” Her tone was even chillier than he had expected.
“About the other night what can I say?”
“Don’t even try.” There was a click and the phone went dead.
Matt felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach, and he knew he deserved it. It would be years before he and Freddie became friends again.
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